


the bitterness and the embarrassment of being alive.

by ikeaplushie



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Unreliable Narrator, listen he is my comfort streamer even if he is a mc pig i WILL project onto him if i want, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeaplushie/pseuds/ikeaplushie
Summary: Does Techno honestly believe God will give him salvation? Does he believe in God's forgiveness after faking divinity and rejecting mortality? Of trying to go beyond his mortal body, push his limits as far as possible? If a God exists, for what they have put him through, he does not know whether he would accept.He is narcissism and self hatred within a mortal body; wants to purge himself of his imperfections, of his shortcomings, and will pay for it a thousand times over.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	the bitterness and the embarrassment of being alive.

**Author's Note:**

> :]
> 
> tagged as rpf, however, i don't in any way believe this is in any way accurate to techno as a person, it simply made more sense for him to be irl and not in minecraft for this fic. this is also a vent fic, and contains long winded passages with flowery language as it's how i best express myself.
> 
> please read the tags ! be safe <3

There is probably something to be said when you realise with dawning horror that you are destroying yourself.

Or, Techno supposes, he already knew. He knew from the moment he started down this path, and now he is both terrified and filled with pride at his shortcomings of something which is so intuitive to others. Sometimes, he sits and thinks about the first time he had disordered eating, and finds his memory has been intertwined with his disorder for so many years, he no longer remembers a life without it. He sees no use dwelling on the past for so long, not when if you think about it for too long, you feel sickeningly, viscerally empty and void of your childhood experiences, untainted by self-infliction. 

Yet, even in the present, accompanying the constant debate of whether to eat, comes the guilt. Millions could be in his place at this moment. He is safe, and he is cared for. But he does not wish to be here, and is miserable with his life. What is the point of chaos theory, of the inconceivable chance of his life when he wishes for death and never truly lives? 

Technoblade has pushed away everyone he cares about, and has never been more alone, with nothing but his head to keep himself company. No one is safe from his desire to spiral and scream until he is hoarse about the unfairness of it all, not his brothers, who are impressionable, and who deserve so much more than him, not his father, who is trying so hard, and it makes Techno’s heart ache even more after another argument surrounding dinner. So he pushes and pushes, and regrets it all the while. He knows he has become but a shell of who he was, and he hates it. He is all too aware of the cold, but searches for it for reassurance. He is all too aware of his ever-changing nature, how he turns irritable at the slightest mention of someone offering food, because he is so hungry, how he is scared of binging, how he is scared to be seen eating in fear of their perception of him warping.

He isn’t religious, not anymore, but he sometimes prays to whichever God will listen, for what must have once been a happy child to come back, for them to tell him where he went wrong. Divine madness. Foolishness. Whatever you call it, Techno knows that he played the joker, and that morbid fascination about restriction, and the attention people seemed to get from near-death experiences from anorexia, from their low, low weights, lead him here. Except it has been years. And he is stuck. This delicate balance between creation and destruction is one of the basest forms of harm. Consistently renewing, purging yourself while hating everything it stands for, to keep this half-shattered facade afloat, for eternity.  


It is his job. He took this fate among himself the moment he discarded and destroyed his mortal vessel in hopes of achieving perfection; he feels a sick pride every time he ruins himself. Not even the Gods can save him now.

Of course, eating is inevitable. The universe has a sick sense of irony, for Techno enjoys food far more than his family members, but has had to trick them into forgetting the past, where he would have seconds, and thirds, and prays no one catches onto his routine of eating only once, and only dinner when he is made to. 

He wakes up powerful, but it is always a gamble whether Techno can maintain that power, or whether he will slide into bed in shame, feeling greater than the universe, and wanting nothing more than to actually be as powerful as this charade he plays, if just to turn back time.  


He eats, and he regrets. He ruins his life, he pushes away people, everyone, anyone, and he is miserable.  


He binges, he hides food. There is a bag of something moldy rotting in the corner. He takes the next chance the house is empty to go and throw it away at a local park. He wants to go and shake sense into his past self, to scream at him that the reality is nothing like what he used to fantasise about, that he is slowly killing himself for something as unglamorous as this. At night, one bite turns into four packets. He zones back in, hates himself even more for being the reason he is in this hell, that if he had any self decency he would know to not eat. He prepares to spend a while trying to erase the past, and grabs water.

To feel both immovable, all-powerful, while simultaneously never being more mortal than in this moment is a strange thing to experience. He hacked up blood while standing at a near 90° angle once, and now refuses to leave until he has physical evidence sliding up his throat that he is hurt, one that will not fade like the bloodshot eyes, like the mucus that threatens to choke him after his secret obsession. There is a relief that accompanies everything he does. A reward after a day of misery, when he lays in bed and thinks about nothing but how hungry he is, about food he misses, about his heartbeat slowing and the shivers that perpetually wreck him. A reward of feeling empty after a binge, of flushing away evidence of his own shortcomings, even if he is shaking, and his eyes sting.

Sometimes, he forgets that this life he is leading is not normal. He's become so used to the constant cycle of hatred, no matter what, that it comes as a shock to his system when he truly looks at his family and all he sees are people who don't think twice about what they eat, who don't have messed up hunger cues, and a self worth balanced on the amount they ate that day. 

It is almost worse when Techno eats normally. Occasionally, it is almost as if he never had an eating disorder in the first place, and he holds onto these days like a lifeline. He lives solely for the energy he has on these days, the interactions he has with his family that isn't tense with the question left unsaid. He knows, how much he will hate himself later, how he will sit in bed and wonder if he ever was sick at all, and be weary and disgusted, promise to do better. But, for those brief respites, he experiences life without his normality, and misses it all the more the next day.

There is a high-pitched, trilling horror that refuses to leave whenever he cannot do daily tasks, a fatigue that shadows him, filling his every movement with thoughts of food. There is no more energy within him. He may currently be empty, but God, that air may as well be lead. 

Oh, how he has fucked up his life for something his naive preteen self wanted so badly they were willing to throw themselves into the deep end at once.  
He is petrified of never being enough, of running out of time to perfect himself, that he ceases to exist when he does not deem his persona flawless. Techno, himself, may be starving for something he knows is futile to refuse his body, but his persona has to stay. It is the one piece of himself that is not grotesque, warped like a funhouse mirror. It still needs work. It always does. It always will. He can never be graceful enough.

The embarrassment of existence is such a futile thing, yet it leaks into everything Techno does, everything he is. There are eyes surrounding him, but to who they belong he no longer knows.  
He is a sickly circus performer, running on long burnt out expectations and adrenaline.  


No one is cheering anymore.  


He has spent so many hours scrutinising the reflection that he no longer understands contentment. Even completely alone, he is constantly putting on a show in hopes of distraction from his own self-hatred.

He wants help. He wants it so badly that most days he can feel it, resting on his chest, on his mind, as heavy as the fear of leaving his life, or what is left of it, behind. Techno knows he is sick. He is so scared of never getting better, of never actually living. Of his existence spent wasting time, trying for something he cannot maintain. And he knows he eventually needs to recover, and he wants to. He just. Doesn't quite deserve it yet. He hasn't earned the right to. 

For while he fears what he has become, what he has given up for an illness, for something he wants so badly he is willing to die for it, there is so much more horror in the idea of leaving this disease that has consumed his waking hours for so long it is home. It has been years since Techno started this trail, and he doubts he will live to see the day that it ends. 

He may even prefer for it to end now. All his days are filled with a repetitive agony of trying, with little results. Days blur into one another. He is still nowhere near where he wants to be. He is willing to chance eternal punishment over this determined self-inflicted cycle, for he does not see the difference. 

He will continue to self-destruct in hopes of self preservation of his purest form. All he can do is hope. Not even he is sure what for anymore. 


End file.
